First impressions of Bordeaux

Shit dude. I'm here. I made it.

According to my little pocket untearable waterproof tourist atlas of France, it's 480km from Toulouse to Bordeaux. I can tell you now that I felt every one.

It was a painful ride. My bag seemed to be filled with concrete and my shoulders ached from the strain of carrying it on the bike all day, not helped by the bouncy suspension on the oft-craggy D-roads of southern France.

On top of this it's been super-wierd getting back into my solitary mode of living. I've been sitting in restaurants hoplessly picturing my happy little group in Montpellier. Having fun sure does make being bored a lot harder.

On a similarly introspective note, my new home (for the next week or thereabouts) has a fabulous amount to live up to. As much as I may have said that Montpellier didn't match Toulouse for sheer atmosphere and generally coolitude, I did really enjoy and warm to the city and found some of the sweetest little places to drink dance and smoke sheesha in. This all makes it difficult for Bordeaux. Here are some first impressions:

• The hostel is large, and the man is scary and unfriendly. He seems pissed off to be there. My roommates don't speak any english (which i KNOW is a good thing, blah blah blah but it's nice to have an easy welcome to a new town and not have the stress of not having the faintest clue what someone is talking about even after the third repitition). The vending machine in the hall, when I asked for a delicious can of Orangina, gave me Orange Tango.
• Next to the hostel is what looks like an old defunct bingo hall (any of you who've ever been to the outskirts of Coventry will know the sort of thing I mean), populated by a large and hideous collection of ancient dudes who are professional piss artists and casual grafitti artists.
• I saw a whole, fresh, dead pidgeon on the piss-stained street just up from the Youth Hostel.

Still, I know what you're thinking (by which I mean: I know what I'm thinking, deep down). I've come to Bordeaux to see a real city. A real city ain't a real city without some good old city problems, and if grumpy receptionists, smelly tramps and a dead pidgeon aren't city problems then I'm fearful and scathing of those things that are. Can you tell I was brought up in leafy Cherry Hintonshire?

Ok, so. It's time to get out there into the real world, check out some deprivation, feel some shit, fight some motherfuckers if necessary, and earn myself the title of "one who knows Bordeaux a little".

Rock....